The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning

The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition - Robert  Browning


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now, — for could the crowds repeat

       Their poor experiences? His hand that shook

       Was twice to be deplored. “The Legate, look!

       “With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,

       “Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,

       “Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while

       “That owner of the idiotic smile

       “Serves them!”

      He fortunately saw in time

       His fault however, and since the office prime

       Includes the secondary — best accept

       Both offices; Taurello, its adept,

       Could teach him the preparatory one,

       And how to do what he had fancied done

       Long previously, ere take the greater task.

       How render first these people happy? Ask

       The people’s friends: for there must be one good

       One way to it — the Cause! He understood

       The meaning now of Palma; why the jar

       Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far

       Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope

       And Rome’s despair? — ’twixt Emperor and Pope

       The confused shifting sort of Eden tale —

       Hardihood still recurring, still to fail —

       That foreign interloping fiend, this free

       And native overbrooding deity:

       Yet a dire fascination o’er the palms

       The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms

       Of paradise; or, on the other hand,

       The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand,

       One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground,

       Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound

       Some saving tree — which needs the Kaiser, dressed

       As the dislodging angel of that pest:

       Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold,

       With coruscating dower of dyes. “Behold

       “The secret, so to speak, and master-spring

       “O’ the contest! — which of the two Powers shall bring

       “Men good, perchance the most good: ay, it may

       “Be that! — the question, which best knows the way.”

      And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past

       Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last

       Of archers, slingers: and our friend began

       To recollect strange modes of serving man —

       Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel,

       And more. “This way of theirs may, — who can tell? —

       “Need perfecting,” said he: “let all be solved

       “At once! Taurello ‘t is, the task devolved

       “On late: confront Taurello!”

      And at last

       He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past

       When forth Sordello came, older by years

       Than at his entry. Unexampled fears

       Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute

       And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute,

       Into Ferrara — not the empty town

       That morning witnessed: he went up and down

       Streets whence the veil had been stript shred by shred,

       So that, in place of huddling with their dead

       Indoors, to answer Salinguerra’s ends,

       Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends

       With any one. A woman gave him choice

       Of her two daughters, the infantile voice

       Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat

       Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat —

       Its blue cross and eight lilies, — bade beware

       One dogging him in concert with the pair

       Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife.

       Night set in early, autumn dews were rife,

       They kindled great fires while the Leaguers’ mass

       Began at every carroch: he must pass

       Between the kneeling people. Presently

       The carroch of Verona caught his eye

       With purple trappings; silently he bent

       Over its fire, when voices violent

       Began, “Affirm not whom the youth was like

       “That struck me from the porch: I did not strike

       “Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin

       “Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin.

       “Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take

       “My glove for guerdon!” And for that man’s sake

       He turned: “A song of Eglamor’s!” — scarce named,

       When, “Our Sordello’s rather!” — all exclaimed;

       “Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?”

       He had been happy to deny, this time, —

       Profess as heretofore the aching head

       And failing heart, — suspect that in his stead

       Some true Apollo had the charge of them,

       Was champion to reward or to condemn,

       So his intolerable risk might shift

       Or share itself; but Naddo’s precious gift

       Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close —

       “I made that,” said he to a youth who rose

       As if to hear: ‘t was Palma through the band

       Conducted him in silence by her hand.

      Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent

       Gave place to Palma and her friend, who went

       In turn at Montelungo’s visit: one

       After the other were they come and gone, —

       These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope,

       This incarnation of the People’s hope,

       Sordello, — all the say of each was said;

       And Salinguerra sat, — himself instead

       Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet.

       ‘T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set

       In order for the morning’s use; full face,

       The Kaiser’s ominous sign-mark had first place,

       The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked

       With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked

       Romano’s green and yellow either side;

       But the new token Tito brought had tried

       The Legate’s patience — nay, if Palma knew

       What Salinguerra almost meant to do

       Until the sight of her


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